


Jolene

by peterpan_in_neverland



Category: In the Heights - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 19:58:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16248779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterpan_in_neverland/pseuds/peterpan_in_neverland
Summary: A dead end diner job, a cute regular, and… a secret life. What can go wrong?





	Jolene

**Author's Note:**

  * For [secretschuylersister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretschuylersister/gifts).



> For T. You keep my head on straight and make sure I keep writing. Thanks for that sista.

 

You wiped down the counter, your nostrils stinging from the cleaner. Someone in the late night shift had spilled grease all over the counter and hadn’t bothered to clean it up, and since you were first here this morning, it fell on you to clean it up. 

 

You heard the door open and close, and felt a hand on your shoulder, turning you around. Rosa was holding her hand out, giving you a smug look. You sighed and handed her the cloth you were using the scrub the counter with, taking a few steps back. 

 

“You should’ve looked up the best way to clean up grease before you did this,” she said, tossing the cloth in the sink and grabbing a clean one, wetting it and wiping down the counter. 

 

“I did,” you defended, “all the came up was how to clean up recently spilled grease, not hardened.” 

 

“Then you should’ve waited for me.” She grabbed a stepstool and climbed on it, rifling through the cabinets before grabbing a bottle of vinegar. She opened it and poured some over the grease, then set the bottle on the counter. “Leave that be, we can wipe it up in fifteen.” 

 

“Godsend,” you said to Rosa, and she smiled knowingly. You left the counter to start prepping tables and Rosa followed you, wiping down the chairs with a wet cloth while you did the tabletops. 

 

“What’re you up to tonight?” Rosa asked, pushing a chair back in. She moved onto the next and you went to a different table. 

 

“Nothing,” you lied, just like every Saturday morning. Really, you were up to something and it was important. You’d been doing the same thing since you were eighteen— working a long shift at the diner in the morning, leaving at one that afternoon, and taking a bus almost two hours out of Washington Heights at five to make it to your eight o’clock gig. Your eight o’clock gig that no one you knew or worked with, especially Rosa, knew you had. 

 

“You should come with us to the club,” she said, and you knew that  _ us  _ meant Marco, Amanda, and Marianna. You all had worked at the diner for years— a dead end job, but it paid the bills and people tipped good here. 

 

“No,” you said, and shook your head. Rosa stood up straight, putting the backs of her hands against her hips. “I’m having my Saturday night in, it’s what I do.” 

 

“Oh, sure, it’s  _ what you do _ ,” Rosa said, putting air quotes around  _ what you do _ , “ _ oh Dios mío _ , it’s like you’re always staying in.” 

 

“It’s like you’re always going out!” You said back. 

 

“Because she is,” Marco said, his voice coming from the kitchen. “Why is there vinegar and grease all over my counter?” He asked.

 

“ _ Mierda _ ,” Rosa cursed, tossing her towel on a table and running back behind the counter. You laughed, shaking your head at her, and finished wiping down the tables and chairs. 

 

“Did your vinegar trick work, Rosa?” You asked, and leaned over the counter, holding your weight on the edge and lifting your feet off the ground. 

 

“Yes,” she said, rinsing a towel in water and wringing it out before wiping over the grease spot again, “which means I win.” 

 

“There are no winners if it’s not a game,” you said, and Rosa crinkled her nose at you. 

 

“ _ Todo es un juego _ ,” she said, and you rolled your eyes. 

 

“ _ ¡Eso es lo que piensas! _ ,” you replied, and Rosa gave you a dirty look before throwing the grease and vinegar soaked towel at you, and you ducked. It hit the opposite wall, then fell, slapping against the tiled floor. 

 

“You better not be throwing my towels, Rosa García,” Marco said, pointing a finger at Rosa, and she shook her head. You grabbed the towel and tossed it back to her and she dropped it in the sink, leaning against it casually. “That’s what I thought,” Marco said, and turned back to his stove. 

 

“Flip the open sign,” Rosa said, and you nodded, “Amanda and Marianna will be here soon, and it’s almost seven.” You turned over the sign so the faded red  _ Closed, come back later! _ with the smiley face showed itself to you. You turned back to Rosa, giving her a thumbs up. 

 

You sat behind the counter with Rosa, waiting on customers to drift in, and for Amanda and Marianna to make it to their shift on time. According to Rosa, Amanda had gotten “utterly  _ smashed _ ” last night and didn’t crash until three in the morning. Marco said he’d give her a free coffee in response. 

 

People started drifting in and you covered your part, Amanda (once she finally came in, wearing sunglasses and holding an Advil bottle in her hand) and Rosa taking their share of tables. Marco and Marianna cooked, the bell ringing with orders, Marianna humming a tune to some gospel song she must’ve been listening to. Marianna was sweet— she wore her dark curls in long french braids and always had pale pink lip gloss on. Sometimes, when she was nervous, she ran her index finger along her nose ring and both you and Rosa thought it was ridiculously adorable. She also listened to gospel and old time country, nothing else, and the only gospel songs you knew were due to her singing them. 

 

“Oh, there’s your regular,” Amanda said, bumping her hip against yours. She seemed better after downing a large coffee and two Advil in six minutes, so now she was back to her regularly scheduled mischief. “He’s looking cute, too. I’d ask him out if you didn’t have cosmically decided dibs.” 

 

“There’s no such thing as cosmically decided dibs, Amanda,” you said, but walked over to his table anyway, already beginning to write his order down. You had been covering his table since he first came in, every Saturday, like clockwork. You knew exactly what he ordered, and you liked to pretend that it was because you remembered things well, when in reality is was because you found him cute. You’d always had a small crush on him, but you never let it get further than that, and you never spoke to (or saw him) outside of the diner. You didn’t even know his name.

 

“Hiya,” he said, leaning on his elbows, “How’s this Saturday for you?” 

 

“Well, someone on the night shift spilled grease everywhere and cleaning it was a disaster,” you said, and he stuck out his lower lip in a pout on your behalf, “but other than that, I’m fantastic. You?” 

 

“Sorry about the grease spill,” He said and nodded, “and I’m pretty good myself. D’you still remember my order?” 

 

“Chocolate chip pancakes, extra butter, a hashbrown, two pieces of toast and a sweet tea,” you said, and he nodded, holding up his hand for a high five. You high fived him. 

 

“You know me so well.” 

 

“That’s what you get out of consistent Saturday breakfasts for six years,” you said, and tapped his table. “I’m gonna go put your order in, and I’ve got other tables to cover.” He smiled at you and you felt your heart lift. 

 

You stuck his order on the rack and made your way through the other tables, writing down orders and handing out meals and receipts, carefully dodging Amanda and Rosa as they carried out plates. 

 

Finally, you carried out chocolate chip pancakes, extra butter, a hashbrown and two pieces of toast and a sweet tea, setting it all on his table. “Thank you, Y/N,” he said, unwrapping his utensils from the napkin and cutting up his pancake. “Tell Marco they're amazing, and tell yourself you’re amazing.” 

 

“I’ll give your compliments to Marco,” you said, and started to walk away, but he stopped you.  

 

“And tell Amanda that banana and honey smoothies help really well with hangovers.” You laughed and then walked away after he winked at you. 

 

“You gotta get his number,  _ querido _ ,” Rosa said, setting a stack of dirty plates in the sink. 

 

“Forget his number,” you replied, biting your lips. They tasted like your lip gloss. “I gotta get his  _ name _ .” 

 

——

 

You stepped off the bus and walked the three blocks to the lounge you performed at quickly, not bothering to take in the sights of the city. You’d walked this route a million times, and you knew every crack in the sidewalk, every brick, every old piece of gum, and every flyer just like you knew the grooves of your fingerprints. 

 

You pushed open the back door, the guard nodding at you on sight. “Tyler,” you said, and he smiled. 

 

“Elle,” He said, “sing your heart out, dear.” 

 

“Sure will,” you replied, and closed the door behind you. Immediately after the smell of cigarettes and cheap liquor, and the distance stench of weed hit your nostrils, you felt Elle Diaz click on, and everything about your day-to-day life— the diner, your studio apartment with its chipping paint and creaky floors and carefully labeled and sorted cardboard boxes— melted away, leaving a confidence you wished you had when you served chocolate chip pancakes, extra butter. 

 

You closed the door to the tiny dressing room and stripped off the tanktop and jeans shorts you had been wearing, replacing it with a white top, a pattern of roses, and tight black pants. You let your dark curls out of the bun they had been in, and put hoop earrings in, ruffling your hair. 

 

You turned around to the mirror, checking your reflection, and swearing quietly in Spanish when you noticed there were no tissues. You wiped your lipgloss off on the back of your hand, the pale pink and sparkles sticking there. You dug your lipstick out of your bag, painting your lips red, and rolling them in. 

 

You heard a knock at your door, and then it opened, revealing the short stage manager. She was blonde and ran on a cocktail of anxiety meds and incurable stress, and it made you upset knowing you couldn’t do anything directly to help. 

 

“Alexis,” you said, and sat down in one of the chairs, pulling off your tennis shoes, “what’s up?” 

 

“Dominic wants to know where you want your pay going,” she said, and you bit your lip, immediately knowing that the lipstick would come off on your teeth. 

 

“The women’s shelter,” you said and put on one of your heels, zipping it up in the back, “I’ll give you all the info after I perform. What’s on the lineup for songs, again?” You tried to avoid songs you listened to regularly in case they came up at the diner, but sometimes you sang a few. The biggest exception, however, was Jolene. You made it a rule to sing it every night and  _ never _ tell anyone in the diner about it. You pulled on the other heel, working your ankle, and then zipping it up. 

 

“Um… Jolene, as usual,” Alexis said, and then rifled through some papers on the clipboard she was holding, “and then Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls, Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac, and Glitter In The Air by P!nk.” 

 

“Fantastic,” you said, and got up, half hugging Alexis. You were already much taller than her, but your heel boots pushed you up four inches, and it made her look like an American Girl doll. 

 

“You’re on in ten,” she said, and fixed her glasses, “fuck ‘em up out there, Elle Diaz.” She closed the door, and you looked at yourself in the mirror. 

 

You had been doing these gigs since you were eighteen, making for nine years worth gigs at a pay of three hundred dollars a gig, every Saturday night. That made up, roughly, four hundred and sixty eight Saturdays, and multiplied by the pay you got, it made for about one hundred and forty thousand dollars. 

 

And you’d never kept a penny of it. 

 

It always went to a charity, or you stockpiled it for a few weeks to buy a mass amount of soaps and toothbrushes and pads and shampoos, along with dozens of other things, and donated them all to different homeless shelters. Another time you donated canned foods, and not just green beans and sliced baby carrots— things like ravioli and spaghetti-o’s— the kind of food that you could open up and eat, getting a decent meal from just one can. 

 

“Elle,” Alexis said, through the door, “five. I’d get on stage if I were you.” 

 

You fixed your lipstick quickly, wiping it off of your teeth, and checked your hair one last time, and then opened the door. You let Alexis lead you to the stage and you sat down on the stool, adjusting the mic before the curtain would open. 

 

“And here is our favourite Saturday night gig, Elle Diaz,” Alexis’s voice said, and people cheered. The curtain opened and you smiled out at the crowd, laughing pretty at the whistles and shouts

 

“How is everyone tonight?” You asked, and a few people replied. Most just cheered. “Can you guess what I’m gonna sing first? 

 

“Jolene!” Someone yelled, cupping their hands around their mouth. You smiled. 

 

“You know me so well,” you said, turned to the small band, and nodded. They started to play and you looked out into the audience, listening for your cue. 

 

You almost missed it, seeing someone that definitely shouldn’t have been here, but you recovered smoothly and hit the first note. You would’ve recognized him anywhere.  _ Chocolate chip pancakes, extra butter, a hashbrown and two pieces of toast with a sweet tea.  _ What was he doing here?

 

“There’s nothing I can do to keep from crying when he calls your name, Jolene,” you sang, “and I can easily understand how you could easily take my man but you don’t know what he means to me, Jolene.” 

 

You continued on singing, strategically avoiding looking at Diner Guy, and by some miracle you made it all the way through your set. You even took a few requests and sang four more songs at the end before finally calling it a night. 

 

Alexis lead you back to the dressing room and unlocked it for you, letting you in. You sat down, unzipping your heels and kicking them off, stuffing them in your bag. You stretched, working your ankles and your feet, rubbing your fingers along the arches, pressing your thumbs into the balls of your feet. 

 

You heard a knock at your door and looked up. Alexis pushed it open, an apologetic look in her eye and her bottom lip in between her teeth. “ _ I’m sorry _ ,” she mouthed, “ _ he gave me fifty dollars _ .” Your eyes widened. 

 

“ _ What _ ?” You mouthed, hoping your face showed your true emotion. Alexis pushed the door open farther and you almost started choking. 

 

_ Chocolate chip pancakes, extra butter, one hash brown and two pieces of toast with a sweet tea _ . 

 

“Elle Diaz,” he said, sticking his hands in his pocket, “I was hoping to meet you.” 

 

“Oh,” you said, finding your voice, “thank you, Alexis, that’ll be all.” 

 

Alexis nodded and backed out, closing the door. “Um… hi,” you said, running your hands up and down your thighs. 

 

“Is it Elle or Y/N?” He asked, and for a second he looked pissed. 

 

You blew out a breath and bit your lip, saying to hell with your lipstick. You wanted to wipe it off like you had your lip gloss but put it off. You would have to tell Alexis you needed more makeup wipes. “It’s Y/N,” you said, “and you can never tell another person what you’ve seen here.” 

 

He smirked. “I’d know those eyes anywhere.” You felt yourself start to physically melt, your crush ramping up twenty percent. “I promise I won’t tell anyone, but I came here for a reason.” 

 

“You did?” You had no idea what he could possibly want from you. Not to mention that he had either followed you here or tracked down an advertisement and  _ actively  _ decided that he wanted to see you perform, even though it was under an alias. 

 

“Where did you go to college?” He asked, tossing his head back. You wrinkled your brow. 

 

“I didn’t,” you said, and rubbed your hands together. You decided to take your earrings out and busied yourself with it. 

 

“Really? You didn’t have any higher education, and you can sing like that?” 

 

You gave him a dirty look. “Yes.” 

 

“Sorry, that was mean,” he ran a hand down his face, “how long have you been singing here?” 

 

“Since I was eighteen,” you said, “so nine years.” 

 

" _Nine years_?!” He repeated, his voice filled with shock and disbelief. “A voice like that and you’ve been singing in a smoky lounge for nine straight years?” 

 

“They pay three hundred a gig,” you said, and put your earrings in a bag, twisting your hair into a bun, “and three hundred every week for nine years adds up.” 

 

“Why haven't you gone to college if you’ve made that much for so long?” He asked, crossing his arms and leaning against a wall. He looked cute, unfortunately. 

 

“I’ve never kept any of it,” you said and decided against changing your shirt in front of him. Instead you started to wipe your lipstick off on your hand. “I’ve put it all into a few different charities, or saved a few weeks to buy stuff to donate. Food drives, homeless shelter supplies. That kind of thing.” 

 

“Who  _ are  _ you?” He asked, and you knit your eyebrows together. 

 

“Who are  _ you _ ?” You said back, deciding it was a fair question, and getting up to look at yourself in the mirror. You wiped off the corners of your lips, your fingers slowly being stained red. 

 

“I’m Lin-Manuel Miranda,” he said, pushing himself off the wall and walking over to you, “and I want to offer you a job.” 

 

You saw your eyes widen, and you whirled around, turning to face Lin-Manuel.  _ Even his name was pretty. _ “You want to do what?” 

 

“A musical I wrote is on rehearsal off-broadway,” he said, “and I want you to play the female lead.” 

 

“W-What’s it about?” You asked. Lin-Manuel started to explain it, and you wanted to play the role even more. He was asking you to play Vanessa, and her character appealed to you, and the story felt so relatable. But… 

 

“I can’t,” you said, interrupting him, and his face fell, “I’m sorry, Lin-Manuel—” 

 

“Call me Lin,” he interrupted, and you nodded. 

 

“I’m sorry, Lin, but I can’t risk pushing Elle Diaz and myself together,” you said, knotting your fingers together. Lin was quiet, chewing on his lips and thinking, tapping his fingers against the counter. “I have a good life this way. I have normalcy at the diner and I have craziness here. I can’t mess it up.” 

 

“Tell Marco,” Lin said, and you blinked. “Marco manages the shifts. He’ll let you rehearse, and then perform, and you can work shifts in between there. You can perform under your alias, and no one will ever know that the nice waitress and Elle Diaz are the same person.” 

 

“What if someone recognizes me?” You asked. 

 

“Celebrity twins happen a  _ lot _ ,” Lin said, smiling all clever, “who’s to say that Elle Diaz and Y/N L/N are the same person? Elle will never be seen out of stage makeup and Y/N will never be seen  _ in _ stage makeup, and Elle works on Broadway, not in a small diner in Washington Heights.” 

 

You started to smile, feeling excitement bubble up in your stomach. You wanted so badly to play Vanessa, and Lin made it seem possible. It was alluring, the chance to be Elle outside of the bar, and not have to choke on cigarette smoke, not having to smile your way through inappropriate pick up lines, not having to take a two hour bus ride twice every Saturday night. 

 

You looked down, seeing that Lins hand was extended, waiting for you to shake it. “What do you say, Elle Diaz? Do we have a deal?” 

 

You looked down at his hand again, and took it. “Okay, Lin-Manuel Miranda. We have a deal.” 

  
  



End file.
